


Roads Not Taken

by jaythenerdkid



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythenerdkid/pseuds/jaythenerdkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It turns out that when his life flashes before his eyes, he sees all the chances he never took.</em> A little one-shot that's been percolating in my mind since before the hiatus. Since the show is currently doing all sorts of mean things to my heart, I thought I'd post this now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roads Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom (though I've read a bunch, and holy hell, y'all are a talented group!). I wrote it in one shot and it hasn't been beta'd. Inspirations are The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost and The Hollow Men by TS Eliot.

It turns out that when his life flashes before his eyes, what he sees is all the chances he never took.

A part of his mind - the rational, doctor-y part - tells him that it's just turbulence, that it'll pass soon, that he's going to be fine (as if he's really been _fine_ since Christina, since everything he thought he knew turned out to be a lie - but if these are to be his last moments, he doesn't want to spend them dwelling on her). But that part is overruled by a much larger part (or maybe just a louder one) that says  _this is it, this is how it ends._

It says:  _is this enough?_

It says:  _is this how you want it to end?_

And as the plane shudders beneath him and his hand grips the armrest so tightly his knuckles whiten with the strain, he thinks back to every time things could have ended differently.

He thinks of a pact he makes with Mindy as they sit on her bedroom floor after that disastrous Christmas party (and haven't they all been disastrous, really?). He thinks about being a gentleman and not taking advantage and hating himself for not going after he wants ( _wanted, will always want_ ). She rebounds with fucking  _Deslaurier_ , of all people, and he thinks about a chance missed and wonders if he'd have been wrong to take it. 

He thinks of reaching for her glasses in the doctors' lounge and almost,  _almost_ letting himself say what he wants to say to her, only to have her jet off to Haiti with that hippie preacher who just ends up breaking her heart anyway. He thinks of writing letters to her, each carefully devoid of words whispered in Christina's ear at night but meant for someone else entirely.

He thinks of her string of dates with guys who are too snobby or not snobby enough, none of whom see her for who she really is, none of whom  _care_ who she really is. He clenches his fists and wishes he'd smashed that stupid ukelele over that art snob's head and punched that skateboarder in the face. He wishes he'd made them pay for not being good enough for her.

He thinks of holding her close to him and pretending to be in love with her and realising that he isn't pretending and thinking  _I could get used to this._  He thinks of the smell of her hair and the feel of her body pressed against his and how nothing has ever felt so right.He thinks of the way her face lights up when he makes her French toast and how she tells him around a mouthful of breakfast that she has a crush on that lawyer down the hall and how suddenly he feels like she isn't even seeing him, like he isn't even there.

He thinks of working on that stupid dance to that stupid song for weeks and the light in her eyes when he dances for her while she sits on the floor sipping wine from her bra, laughing with amazement and something he thinks might be joy. He thinks of that moment when she's looking up at him like he's special, like he's  _worth_ something, like she's actually fucking _seeing_ him in a way he's always wished she would. And then he thinks of letting her walk away and watching her kiss Cliff on the balcony as snowflakes settle in her hair and how that could have been ( _should_ have been) him, if only he'd taken the chance.

He thinks and thinks and thinks. One more road not taken; one more  _if only_ to add to the list. One more _could-have-been_ flashing before his eyes right now as the plane pitches sideways slightly and he clenches his teeth to stop them from rattling. How many more will there be?

The turbulence stops. He looks at the seat next to him and she's not there and he thinks to himself:  _is this how you want it to end?_ And he knows even as he asks the question what the answer is.

She's holding bottles of seltzer (how can she still not know the difference between seltzer and tonic water?) and she looks up at him and she is so goddamn perfect and he knows he doesn't want this to be another moment flashing before his eyes some day.

He thinks: _this is not how it ends._

He says: "Hey."

He kisses her.

The universe shudders around them and he doesn't even care.

* * *

 

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -_

_I took the one less travelled by,_

_And that has made all the difference._ \--Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken"


End file.
